I’ve said it before (this always predicates me saying “I’ll say it again.”) and I’ll say it again: he is not a mesh hat. he was not fodder for rip-off artists at white trash beach superstores. He was Von fucking Dutch. Kenny Howard, dammit.
In his own words, “I make a point of staying right at the edge of poverty. I don’t have a pair of pants without a hole in them, and the only pair of boots I have are on my feet. I don’t mess around with unnecessary stuff, so I don’t need much money. I believe it’s meant to be that way. There’s a ‘struggle’ you have to go through, and if you make a lot of money it doesn’t make the ‘struggle’ go away. It just makes it more complicated. If you keep poor, the struggle is simple.“
Seen here in 1961 aboard a chopper bearing the gains of his astronomical ingenuity, Kenny was clearly a man of his own design. Spend some time respecting him, mean drunkard as he was.
And dig this guy while you’re at it. Roger de Pankaoenke (european for “pancake”) could lay down the hammer. Just lay it in the road and bail, like a roofer at whistle time. The Pancake eats rare steaks for breakfast, for fuck’s sake. How do you sit in that back pocket when bitch eats a RARE STEAK FOR BREAKFAST? and fuck racing in a baby hat. 1970’s windtunnel technology proved that sideburns the size of paint rollers caught bitches by surprise.
Hopefully you’ll also now see that Brooklyn was a brand of gum LONG before it was a place to move your trend-thirsty trust fundy pile of shit known as “yourself”.
That wraps up a night for this tepid wet washcloth. Keep it limber.by